


something more

by orphan_account



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Hand Jobs, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, M/M, Mentioned Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 11:20:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22395241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: You’re a downright fool for ever believing what you had could’ve been something more.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 465





	something more

_You’re a downright fool for ever believing what you had could’ve been something more._

Jaskier tries to ignore his thoughts, blinking back the angry tears forming in his eyes, like he wasn’t just barely holding himself together as he treks down that mountain. _Curse that mountain, curse that dragon hunt, curse that I ever spoke,_ he thinks, and tries to derail that thought process, because _fuck_ if it were his fault the mountain actually gets cursed. If there was anything about his travels with Geralt—

He stops thinking. No, that chapter closed itself for him; rather, _Geralt_ closed that chapter for the both of them. He grips his lute strap tighter, legs shaky but not from exhaustion. He’s a fool for thinking he meant something more to Geralt, and even more a fool for having spoken in the first place, but the witcher was right. _He_ was the reason why Geralt was in Cintra that day, why he had to be there to save that knight, why he claimed the Law of Surprise. _He_ was the reason why Geralt had to search for a djinn’s amphora, why that djinn broke free during their struggle, why he almost died saving the witch that previously saved Jaskier’s life. _He_ was the reason why he and Yennefer were linked, _he_ was the reason why she left, and ultimately, _he_ was the reason why Geralt told him to go. It was his own fault, that much Geralt had made clear.

“Fuck..” Jaskier whispers, already having stopped in his footsteps as the tears fell. He wipes them with the fabric of his doublet, containing his sobs in case someone from the hunt was close enough to hear him. It was unlikely, since he and Geralt had stayed up in the mountains longer than the rest, but he still closes his mouth, tries to breathe, and exhales shakily. He wipes the rest of his tears away, and though a part of him wished Geralt had come down the mountain to follow after him, he knew it would’ve been impossible for the witcher.

So he keeps walking, and walking, and tries to leave his memories of all that happened on that path from the mountains.

_I should’ve stopped him from leaving._

When Jaskier had uttered those words to him and left, he knew his mistake instantly, and yet, said nothing. He waited for the bard to disappear down the mountain before even moving from where he sat, brooding. He knew what he said hurt Jaskier, hurt him so much that the man shut up and left him, and in that moment, he felt satisfied with the peace that followed, only for it to be replaced with regret. A part of him wanted to _move_ , to follow after the bard and apologise and say he didn’t mean it— because he didn’t, not really— yet, his legs don’t move, he stays seated on a boulder, staring off into the horizon like it’ll move for him if he looked hard enough.

In the end, he had to get up and make his way back down the mountain. If he had any form of luck, he might find Jaskier at the bottom of the mountain, perhaps waiting for him or resting before he makes his way to the town, but he comes up empty handed, finding the bottom of the mountain bare of a bard.

Geralt would never say he was the hopeful type, but a large part of him is disappointed when he finds out the bard isn’t in the town either, a day later. He silences the part of his mind that worries— _what if he never made it down the mountain? Could his corpse have been rotting somewhere by the path down? Cursed bard, can hardly protect himself, yet goes down alone_ — because he _knows_ the reason why he went down alone, why he left alone, why he isn’t waiting at the bottom of the mountain. He knows he would’ve smelled something wrong, and that the mountain path is mostly bereft of monsters due to the dragon lurking at the top, but he worries anyways, because he’s—

He continues riding, trying not to think of _why_ he feels empty without the bard’s annoying prattle, the strumming of the lute he got from Filavandrel years back, and the lack of another set of footsteps alongside Roach’s. He looks ahead, thinking it would be better for him to just not think of the bard, and yet, his mind doesn’t comply.

He looks ahead, a hefty coin purse in his pocket, yet the weight of his heart was heavier.

The tavern that Jaskier finds himself in is larger than the last ones, yet no more dignified than the rest.

Mugs and plates clatter against each other, ale and beer and various other liquids splashing onto worn out tunics, knuckles and palms bruising from how hard they punch the table when losing their game of dice, drunken singing to the songs Jaskier plays; exactly his type of environment. He was made for taverns and inns and courts, where he could pluck his lute and sing ballads and look pretty for the enjoyment of others. He’s in his element, where he can sing and play to ears that listen. He wasn’t made for the road and traveling, singing to only two pairs of ears, one a horse and the other—

He doesn’t continue that thought. It’s been a little over a month, but nothing, not copious amounts of ale, not the praises of those who listen, not even women fawning over him and begging he visited their chambers, can rid the ache from his chest. When he left that day, he thought he could leave behind the part of him that wanted to stay with the witcher, but too much of him wanted to be with him. Rather than leaving behind the part of him that loves Geralt in a way he knows the witcher cannot ( _or would not_ , his mind supplies unhelpfully), he keeps it tucked away somewhere in his heart.

The tavern door opens, and Jaskier decides his shift starts. A group of villagers come in, probably ready for a night drinking to music and cheering; most of them came from the docks, if Jaskier remembers correctly, but their group is smaller than he remembers, and much, much more solemn.

“Why such long faces, my friends? Is it not a time for merry drinking and chattering?” He inquires, though admittedly more curious than caring. The men, now situated in their chairs, look at Jaskier with gloom in their eyes and frowns on their faces.

“‘Fraid we can’t, Master Jaskier. Tonight, we make a toast to the fallen.” One of them says, flagging down the barmaid for a few pints. “Aye, nary a drop’ll go to cheerin’ and singin’. Good men died this morn, and we can’t drink in joy while their wives mourn.” Another adds, looking down at the table.

“I see.. What was the reason they died, if I may?” Jaskier asks, hoping his tone wasn’t so interrogating. Witnessing so much death, creature and human alike, has changed his outlook on death, though he can only hope they died peacefully. However, destiny is often cruel with the lowly and unfortunate.

The group of men look among each other fearfully, like speaking of how their friends died would bring a curse upon them. “A monster, Master Jaskier. We haven't an idea what kind, but no man can tear them apart like _it_ did,” One of them answers helpfully. “We’ve been havin’ this monster problem since a few days ago, only a day after you came into town.” He continues, and hopefully looks up at Jaskier, sort of like a begging pup. “We was hopin’ you could call your witcher friend, perhaps he could help our predicament.”

Jaskier stops in his mindless activity of tuning his lute. Right, of course; no one knows what had happened between the witcher and the bard. He mulls over what he can respond with, and decides as quickly as he can; “Of course, of course! I’m sure he’s on his way now, in fact, as the desperate pleas of salvation are sure to attract him here,” He says smoothly, knowing his smile looks nervous. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be preparing myself for a journey north.” He says next, quickly standing from his seat. The possibility that Geralt could stroll into town in the morning and having to see each other was, if not terrifying, something Jaskier isn’t ready for, maturity be damned.

“But, the monster still roams Valk!” A man says panickedly, worrying over Jaskier’s decision. “It strikes at night, and ravages it’s victims beyond recognition— we barely recognised Älskar when we found him, had it not been for his pendant!”

“I assure you, I will be fine. I’ve trekked through more dangerous times,” _With a witcher by my side, not all alone,_ he thinks, but pointedly ignores it. “Geralt will surely be here soon. That monster you describe is sure to attract his attention.” He assures them, the men visibly relaxing. He hopes he’s right, and selfishly, he hopes Geralt arrives by tomorrow.

Jaskier leaves the men alone, making his way up the stairs to his room in the inn to pack. There’s still a bit of light left, but the sun is going down quickly, and if he doesn’t leave as soon as he can, the monster will probably get to him as soon as he leaves the town. He tries not to think of his reason as to why he’s leaving in the first place.

To his credit, Geralt hasn’t tried to actively seek Jaskier out.

Alright, maybe he did, but he only goes to the towns where they need his skillset, and that’s a _fuckton_ of towns in Velen. He knows well by now that Jaskier probably doesn’t want to see him, not after what he said, but fuck if he doesn’t hold out the tiniest sliver of hope that Jaskier would be in the next tavern he stops by, playing that stupidly catchy coin song he keeps being requested to sing, but it never happens. He never walks into an inn or tavern and even hear a peep from a loud mouth about the bard.

He’s riding into Valk as the sun goes down, painting the sky an aggressive orange against slowly dwindling dark blue. Roach neighs as he reigns her to a halt at the entrance of the small town’s tavern, getting off and patting Roach on the neck, the horse barely gracing him with a reply and immediately dipping her head into a trough.

When he opens the door to the tavern, the low chatter grinds to a halt. Geralt, already used to the humans’ reactions to his presence, ignores their fear of him, making his way to the bar and taking a seat on the bar stool. He feels movement close to him, alongside hushed whispers, and keeps his guard up. “Beer.” He tells the barkeep, who hurriedly nods with wide eyes and fills a mug.

“You’re that witcher, ain’t ya?” A man asks behind him. The scent of fear and, strangely, hope is strong in the air, along with the lingering scent of the sea and.. orchids?

“Yeah. What’s it to you?” He grounds out, waiting for the hurling of insults and challenges by drunken fools that think they can take a witcher. He stands from his stool, facing the man behind him and towering over him.

The man, unexpectedly, sighs in relief. “The bard was right, you _were_ coming! Oh, we need you somethin’ strong, witcher; see, we’ve a problem with a monster ‘round these parts—”

Geralt only really hears the first part. “Where did he go?” He asks, rather, _demands_ from the townsman. The first lead he’s gotten on Jaskier’s whereabouts since he pushed him away, and it’s in some laketown in the middle of fucking nowhere. “The bard. Where’d he go?”

“Er- he went north, towards-” But Geralt’s out the door before he could hear the end of the sentence, making his way towards Roach and hoping Jaskier wasn’t too far ahead, or worse, prey for whatever monster haunted Valk.

Jaskier knew leaving so late was a mistake.

He’s been walking for merely an hour, and yet, it’s just been complete silence. No hoot of an owl, no skitter of a rodent, no blowing of the wind. Only silence, which is hardly common for the likes of monster infested Velen. He’s no witcher, but even he can feel that something was about to go wrong.

Something heavy drops in the distance, and Jaskier knows he’s fucked. This is it, this is his end; he’ll die the victim of a ruthless witch, or a monstrous beast, maybe even the monster that killed those men by the docks. He holds onto his lute strap, praying to any god that would listen that he survive his journey. With a breath, he keeps walking, trying to keep his footsteps as silent as he could.

The first thing he registers is the impact. The sudden tackle that sends him to the ground, pain flaring through his arms and his back. The second is the figure that tackles him— a disgusting, grotesque creature with a flower-like head, snarling and drooling on him with pincer like teeth. The third is the sheer terror, screaming as he tries to block his face from the _thing_ trying to kill him, thrashing around to break free, but it’s no use— the creature is far stronger than him, and holds him down with strong arms as it’s pincers— no, _fangs_ — nears his jugular—

The creature is sliced clean in half in front of him, blood spraying in all angles, including his face, the sword that did the deed barely missing his face. The creature flops to his side, and Jaskier scrambles to get away, heart beating like he had run a race, eyes blurry as he tries to register what the _fuck_ just happened.

“Are you alright? Did it bite you?” His saviour asks, and he recognises that voice, recognises it too much. He’s snapped back to reality as he blinks up at Geralt, the blood of the creature still warm on his hands and dripping from the witcher’s sword, a hand outstretched towards him.

“What are _you_ doing here?” He snarls instead of answers, face twisting into one of anger. He stands to his feet alone, making a point of ignoring Geralt’s hand, and steps back away from him. No, he’s not going to make it easy for Geralt, not when he’s angry and sad and tired, even if he.. Even if.

“I..” Geralt begins, obviously taken aback. The venom in Jaskier’s voice was one he’s never heard from the bard, nor one he expected to hear. What _was_ he doing here? “I’m sorry.” He decides. Something pierces in his chest when Jaskier looks at him with teary eyes and a furious frown.

“ _‘Sorry?’_ You’re ‘sorry?’” Jaskier says, his tone prickly. He laughs without humour, tries to speak without tremble. “Were you sorry when you told me you wanted me gone? Were you sorry when you didn’t even so much as _look at me_ when I left?” He says, a half built sob lodged in his throat. He didn’t realise when Geralt had started walking towards him, but he’s so close now, and he breathes in. “Were you sorry when you trampled on my heart?” He whispers, blinking back tears. He loathes how emotional he’s getting, but he’s never been one for stoicism.

Geralt is silent, looking into Jaskier’s icy blue eyes. There's turmoil in them that he knows was because of him, because of his stupid decisions and his cold mouth. He has no words to describe what he was feeling, so instead, he removes his glove, places his ungloved hand against Jaskier’s cheek, looking for any sign that this isn’t what Jaskier wanted. He leans in, hoping against hope that this is what Jaskier wants, and kisses the bard he wishes he never let go of.

Jaskier, against what he feels is better judgment, leans into the kiss, a tear falling against his cheek when he closes his eyes, thoughts running wild yet silently as he kisses Geralt. There’s no explosion of emotions, no realisation of feelings. They’ve known, always known, but only now have _made it_ known. Jaskier places his arms around Geralt’s neck, pulling him in closer, deepening the kiss, the other wrapping his free hand around the bard’s waist.

The bard breaks the kiss, out of breath as he opens his eyes, staring into the golden of Geralt’s. “Never say that to me, not like that.” He tells him quietly, sincere in a way that reminds Geralt of how much he regrets ever saying anything of the sort. He leans his forehead on Jaskier’s, closing his eyes and feeling true relief for the first time since they parted ways.

“No, not again.”

Geralt, by all means, is not that patient of a man.

It’s evident by the way he pushes Jaskier against the door of their room in the inn, kissing and marking the bard’s neck like it was his last day to live. He relishes in Jaskier’s moans, breathy and vocal, especially when he dips his hand into his trousers, stroking him slowly. “Not fair,” Jaskier rasps, head thrown back against the door as he lets Geralt explore his neck and his cock. He’s a moaning mess, even without the hand stroking his prick slow enough he thinks he’ll be seventy by the time he cums. Regardless, he bucks up into the witcher’s touch.

“I think this is fair,” Geralt replies, his tone amused. When he twists his hand to the right, he elicits a saccharine moan from the younger man, a noise he savours. He moves to kissing right under Jaskier’s ear, “I could’ve been doing this a long time back.”

That seems to get to Jaskier, as if he hadn’t been gotten in the first place. “If you’re not going to fuck me, I’ll be sorely disappointed,” He manages, rock hard and practically rutting into Geralt’s hand. “I’d rather the bed, though. My legs aren’t that sturdy to fuck against a wall.” He remarks with a breathy laugh, which morphs into a moan when the witcher twists his palm against the head of his cock.

“If we must,” Geralt says, reluctantly letting go. He grins, exposing sharp canines, and Jaskier feels like he’s looking at a predator, yet he opens himself to him, wrapping his arms behind Geralt’s neck and pulling him into a kiss. The kiss is like falling into a warm bed after facing the cold of night, the calm after the storm.

The kiss is like a homecoming for the both of them.


End file.
